


On Compassion (Or The Lack Thereof)

by rapunzariccia



Category: Neverwinter Nights
Genre: F/F, Gen, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzariccia/pseuds/rapunzariccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old Owl Well is just the beginning of a lot of problems. Neeshka POV attempting to deal with jealousy. A cleaned-up version of an unposted drabble originally written sometime at the end of 2013/beginning of 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Compassion (Or The Lack Thereof)

Her skin itched before they had even rounded the corner, and she knew she hated him before she even got a good look at him from her position in the back of the group. He's a paladin - neither man nor human, just another tool of the gods that prickles her from the inside and makes her want to puke. If he had a similar reaction to her blood, he doesn't show it. They're informed tersely what the situation is and how it should be handled and Neeshka can't concentrate for wanting to slap the holy man's buzz away like a mosquito.  
  
And then he slimed his way into their party, yeugh, and his hammer fit neatly between the dwarf and the planetouched - who, to her horror, turned sun-gold eyes on the new addition and smiled as though it was the biggest pleasure to have his companionship.  
  
Neeskha spends the rest of the night sulking in the dark as far away from the others as she dares. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her tail's end flicks as angrily as any cat's. She's cold but too stubborn to move closer to the fire, and the itch of the holy man won't leave her alone. For the most part she is being ignored; she is still a tiefling and cannot be trusted, nevermind that she's risked her life for the rest of them a dozen times over. Cylle casts several worried glances her way, but Neeshka ignores them in favour of being moody. She can hear them for all they're trying to be quiet, and her leader ( _her_ leader, not his, never his) is asking the same quiet questions she did when they saved her. She decides then and there that if she is ever so unlucky as to meet Tyr himself, she will spit at his feet.  
  
Not too long after this blasphemy she decides to retire. She can continue being grumpy in the morning, she reasons, but they are still deep in caves and she needs her wits about her. It wouldn't do to show herself up in front of the paladin. First she kicks off her boots, and then she brushes the small pebbles from where she intends to lay her head. She's still not going to move closer to the fire. As she lies down, a cord at her neck slips out of her shirt and glints in what little light there is. She tucks it back in, but not before running her fingers over the necklace she was gifted some time ago. It was from Cylle, of course, the only one to be kind to her, and it came her way in the same quiet way that Cylle gave everything.  
"It's nothing fancy," she'd said as she'd handed it over, but Neeshka wouldn't have known what to do with _fancy_ other than sell it for a good price.  
  
She huffs, and the conversation between the two lulls for a moment. She doesn't care that she's interrupting their get-to-know-each-other time; in fact, she's glad of it. All the better to keep them from interacting if it keeps her girl hers. She knows that it would be a storybook romance for anyone else to entertain. A just and right paladin saving a girl who just happened to be descended from celestials. Despite knowing that the wood elf she'd left back in West Harbour wasn't her real father, Cylle gives the impression that she has never thought of herself as any different from those around her. Hard to think that looking at her: sure, the pretty gold eyes are a giveaway, as are the pointed ears, but only a few times has Neeshka ever seen anyone bronzed, and certainly none of those humans were as positively sun-kissed all over, hair and skin and eyes alike. Even with no clouds in the sky the girl glints, and on good days she is _radiant_. Her blood prickles when she's near, of course, but she's able to push it aside in favour of the flip-flopping her stomach does. For a celestial descendant she's easier to deal with than the goodness that the paladin is rife with.  
  
so lost in her thoughts is she that she doesn't notice the paladin has bid her girl goodnight. A cold press of golden fingertips to her ankle makes her jump.  
"Are you angry with me?"  
Neeshka snorts, and her tail swishes. "No."  
"But you're angry."  
"I am," she says, and then she can't help herself. "He's not welcome around me."  
  
Cylle is kicking her own boots off, doesn't reply until she's comfortable behind the tiefling. She's pressed up against her back, devil's blood warming her in lieu of the fire.  
"I'm sorry," she says into Neeshka's neck, and slips a well-muscled arm around her waist. Were they standing, they would cast a single shadow, the way it ought to be.  
"I don't like him," she adds for good measure. "He's not right. He shouldn't be near you."  
"Why not?" is the response, and she could laugh. Of _course_ she can't see it, but it's so obvious that Neeshka knows it is already too late. It might be fatalistic but she has already lost this girl and resigned herself to the fact.  
"Because he's a _paladin_ ," she growls. "He does what's right and serves the righteous and you're the most right of them all," and then she wriggles around to fix her girl with her most plaintive look. "The most right," she repeats in a whisper. She worms her hand up between them so she can rest her fingers on Cylle's square jaw. "You're aasimar," she says simply. "He'll hate me. He has to. Devil's taint, right? We're the opposite of each other, and that means he'll love you, and I don't want him to."  
  
Her honesty is rewarded with a quiet laugh, and then Cylle pulls her close. Her nose fits into the junction between neck and shoulder snugly, and she blinks her eyelashes against the girl's throat, annoyed but not surprised to find them moist with tears. "Silly," Cylle whispers, and presses her lips against Neeshka's forehead. "You think such silly things." The kisses move from forehead to eyelids to nose and each one feels like burning.

* * *

  
She's lost count of how many days it has been since they left the caves. She's glad to be free of both them and the orcs they housed, but that's the only thing she's glad of. The paladin - she refuses to call or think of him by name - is truly righteous and only the more suspicious because of it. He prays before sleeping and eating and isn't afraid of invoking his god to assist him in battle. Neeshka keeps as far from him as she can. He does not seem to mind when Cylle spits magic that worms its way into the ground and sprouts in the form of an undead that lumbers alongside them, nor does he mind continuing to sleep on open ground under the stars, though he freely admits he cannot remember the last time he slept in a bed.  
  
He is courteous and polite if not friendly but the only person that shares her distrust is the sour ranger that's forced to join them. He bears a name that Neeshka thinks should belong to the paladin instead, but she keeps that thought to herself. He's moody enough without an awful comparison like that weighing him down further. She keeps her mouth shut and drinks ale with him instead, and slowly he learns to tolerate her presence in silence. No one else in their ragtag group is given this privilege.  
  
"You see it, don't you?" he asks her once. At this point they are five or six drinks in, tankards surrounding them on the bartop. Her head is swimming.  
"See wha'?" she says, and her answer is the jerk of his head in the direction of the paladin and the aasimar. They're sitting two benches away, joined by the barkeep and the swamp druid, heads all bowed together as they discuss something of great import, no doubt. Neeshka couldn't care less what the reason for their discussion is, because her eyes have fixed on Cylle's elbow, which is brushing against the paladin's. She's been doing that a lot lately, looking for proof that her girl is no longer hers, even though she is still freely gifted kisses whenever she wants them. She doesn't ask for them as often as she used to. "Yeah," she says, and slams the rest of her drink. It's bitter going and she gags after it's finished. "'Course," she gasps, and now she's glaring at that tiny contact between them. "Course I see it. Everyone gets it 'cept them and I _don't get it_."  
"You don't get it?" Bishop asks, and he stares at her with all the incredulity one deep in their cups can muster. "What's not to get? He's a paladin and she's-"  
"The next best thing to the gods," Neeshka cuts him off, waves her hand in irritation and knocks two tankards to the floor. They clatter loudly but fail to grab the attention of those they're talking about. "I _know_ that, smartass. I hate him," she adds with fresh venom. "All good and holy and - and _good_."

"Keep hoping and you might just see him fall," Bishop says, and leaves her to slip off her chair and stumble to bed with nausea and hate mixing in her stomach.


End file.
